


the purest element

by orbiting_saturn



Series: The Sassy Drabbles and Ficlets [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, One-Sided Relationship, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 07:23:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orbiting_saturn/pseuds/orbiting_saturn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam experiences things now in different measures of physicality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the purest element

Sam experiences things now in different measures of physicality. He _can_ feel. Feeling isn't something the soul has a monopoly on. What Sam feels now is the squelching split of flesh beneath his knuckles while he fights, the tugging burn of muscles pulling and taxing while he runs and chases, the slow-burning build of arousal in his groin while he fucks and finishes. Sam feels these things and he likes them.

Even as Sam's callously logical in his way of thinking, it's the basic impulses of his flesh that guide him. They can be overridden by Sam's intellect and don't _rule_ him because his most dominant instinct is the one for survival. There's just a tiny flaw in that instinct, one that only ever emerges when Castiel is around.

Something in Sam reacts strangely to Castiel's presence. There's a leaping stutter to his heartbeat, a fluttering tension to his muscles, a flushing warmth to his blood. If Sam weren't so very aware of his body, if he didn't live through it so completely, it's not something he would normally notice. The soul has a way of muddying the reactions of the body, of dimming urges and changes.

It's magnetic, this mysterious imperfection, a pull that tugs and twitches towards the angel. It wants closer, arches in and groans against the distance Sam keeps. It's not exactly attraction, though that's part of it. At least it isn't overwhelming, but it's definitely a distraction. Sam has to make a concerted effort to keep his hands off of Castiel, to not bow to the draw and slink closer.

There's no pattern to this unknowable element of Sam's chemical make-up, no way to predict its reaction. Sam finds that the easiest way to distract himself from the anomaly is to funnel it into something he understands. When that thing in him reaches out, Sam redirects it, pushes it down to that place that makes him animal.

If there were the slightest chance Castiel would allow it, Sam would sink his teeth in him. He'd rove him over with hands and mouth, taste that static sizzle on his tongue and bend him over. Sam could cover Castiel completely, the angel who is so much and so little all the same. Sam would take that stolen body, fill it up with that clawing, gritting thing in him and expel it forever and ever. Sam would lose that madness. Sam would do so very many things.

There's not the slightest chance, so Sam finds his own pleasure. Sam has a hand still stinking of Castiel, a hand that stole a touch and absorbed the smell of him. Sam covers his face with that hand, licks at the lingering angel flavor and finds his hardness with the other.

Sam is stiff and long, damp with sweat and precome when he peels open the front of his jeans. There's the slightest sting when Sam wraps himself up, skin rubbed wrong by the friction of denim on bare flesh. It makes it better, that small pang like the phantom thing in his veins, dry skin on skin.

Behind Sam's eyes, a rolling image of Castiel in disrepair, dirtied and mussed under Sam. Gripping tight, Sam starts to stroke, short and punched, just how he'd fuck Castiel if given half the chance. Sam would take him dry, force himself in and stay buried deep with churning grinds of his hips.

Teeth caught in the meat of his palm, Sam thrusts into the curl of his fingers. He takes himself brutally, quick and hard, palming and clenching and grunting. There's little pleasure in manual stimulation, but needs must be met and Sam _needs > so very much. So he lets his imagination overwhelm him, working himself furiously. _

If he could have it any way he wanted, Sam would press Castiel back on the hood of the Impala. He'd drag his pants down, just far enough to bare his ass and tip him up. Sam would get a grip in Castiel's hair or on his wrists, hold him down and shove in, face to face, eye to eye. Castiel would fold up so pretty, knees pushed into his chest while Sam's cock flooded him.

And it's then that Sam feels it boil up, that rushing need to come from spine to gut, tightening his balls before he spurts. There's no way to pretend he isn't spattering his own hand, no comparison to the slow flow of filling another body, but there's some small relief to having done it.

While Sam comes down from his orgasm, breath evening out and that needy thrum lightening, Sam searches for that negative space inside. It's gone now, but then, so is Castiel.


End file.
